


Ants Are Assholes (Or, the one where they finally have the picnic)

by ChubbyHornedEquine



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Picnic, in which they go for a picnic, miscommunication is their middle fucking name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21776497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChubbyHornedEquine/pseuds/ChubbyHornedEquine
Summary: Just some fluffy silliness. My on-going fic is ANGST CITY and I just really wanted something soft lolShout out to moveslikebucky for the prompt!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	Ants Are Assholes (Or, the one where they finally have the picnic)

**Author's Note:**

> Just some fluffy silliness. My on-going fic is ANGST CITY and I just really wanted something soft lol  
> Shout out to moveslikebucky for the prompt!

There are far more ants involved in picnicking than anyone bothers to mention. So many grand paintings of love struck fools reclining in the grass, sharing grapes and wine, gentle breezes rustling hair and skirts and floppy hats, there's usually some dog running around. What you don’t see are the dozens and dozens of teeny tiny menaces intent on flitting off with your food.  
  
Aziraphale is an angel, a creature of love. As such, he loves all creatures great and small. This happens to include ants.  
  
He also likes eating.  
  
He does not like the idea of mixing the two.  
  
With a quick snap of his fingers he creates a small ant-free bubble around his picnic blanket. They’re not gone, they just…have no reason to be interested in anything in the immediate vicinity. Aziraphale stands and surveys his work. A tartan blanket, but in red, for Crowley, two bottles of wine, and an assortment of cheeses and breads and little fruits and cakes and finger sandwiches that is, frankly, obnoxious.  
  
He loves it.  
  
A quick peek at his pocketwatch tells him Crowley should be parking the Bentley in a spot probably not meant for the parking of Bentleys before sauntering his way over to the bench where they’d agreed to meet. Aziraphale looks out across the field of grass towards the empty bench. He can picture it easily:  
  
Crowley slinks up to the empty bench, is a little confused, or maybe not, Aziraphale has an unfortunate penchant for being late at times, so maybe he’ll take a seat. He’ll wait. And he’ll wait. Eventually he’ll look around. And then he’ll spot Aziraphale standing under the shade of the tree a little ways away, a picnic by his feet.  
  
And then he’ll smile.  
  
But he’ll try to hide it of course. The demon _has standards_ after all.  
  
Only that’s not what happens at all.  
  
Crowley does slink up to the empty bench, and he is a little confused, or perhaps annoyed, but instead of taking a seat he turns once and immediately spots Aziraphale.  
  
And he doesn’t smile.  
  
He stalks over to the angel, everything about his walk, his posture, screaming annoyance. Aziraphale rings his hands nervously when Crowley finally stops in front of him. The demon lifts his glasses, something he’d begun to do more often since they successfully retired, amber eyes glaring down at the picnic. He looks at Aziraphale.  
  
“What is this? Is this a bloody picnic?”  
  
“I…yes?”  
  
Crowley immediately threw his head back, letting out a groan so thoroughly put out that he has to bend back a little with the force of it.  
  
“Crowley!”  
  
“Why? Why is there a picnic here?”  
  
“Well…when you suggested we meet here today—“  
  
“Yes! Yes, _I_ suggested it!”  
  
“I _thought_ it would be _nice_ , you-you foul fiend!”  
  
“Oh for—ugh. Come on, then,” Crowley says, and starts walking away without waiting for a response.  
  
“But—“  
  
“Just _leave it_ , angel,” he calls over his shoulder. “No one’s gonna touch it. Come on.”  
  
Aziraphale takes one last glance at his beautiful picnic and follows behind Crowley with a huff. This is not at all how it’s supposed to go. He assumes Crowley is going to lead him to the relative unspoken safety of the bench. Where there’s a proper seat for your bottom and a back to lean on and arm rests and nothing like the sprawling expanse of soft grass where if one wanted a pillow to rest their head the only option _might_ be a certain angel’s plush thighs. But that’s _fine_ , he supposes.  
  
Only Crowley doesn’t stop at the bench and Aziraphale is more confused than suspicious. He follows Crowley past the bench, down the path a little ways, off the path and onto the grass, up a small hill and then, at the crest of said hill, Crowley stops and looks at him.  
  
Aziraphale stares back.  
  
Crowley rolls his entire head along with his eyes, gesturing pointedly ahead of them.  
  
Aziraphale looks and he sees… A Bentley that is very much parked in a place not meant for Bentleys, a blanket, red and _tartan_ and Aziraphale thinks that alone might make him cry but then he sees what’s _on_ the blanket and its two bottles of wine, an assortment of cheeses and breads and little fruits and cakes and finger sandwiches that was, frankly, obnoxious, _and_ half a dozen of his favorite raspberry crumble bars from the nearby bakery.  
  
“You snake!” He says, absolutely delighted. “Is this why they were all sold out when I went by earlier?”  
  
He's answered with a shrug and a very noncommittal, very Crowley-like garble of sounds.  
  
“Oh this is wonderful!”  
  
“Yeah but you went and did one too so…we should probably do yours, I don’t want it to go to waste…”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, we’re doing your picnic!”  
  
“Technically the whole picnic thing was your idea first. Ages ago.”  
  
“My dear, in the grand scheme of our immortal lives, I hardly think 50-some-odd years counts as ‘ages’ ago. And besides, _your_ picnic has the raspberry bars so—“  
  
“Well. Yeah. Cause I’m awesome. But—“  
  
Aziraphale puts up a hand, effectively silencing Crowley, and he feels a smirk creep onto his face that he knows is more than a little devilish, and he snaps his fingers.  
  
His picnic spread appears right beside Crowley’s with perhaps some of the dishes removed to make space for them to sit and because even Aziraphale can recognize that was a lot of food. The sponge cakes stay though.  
  
As do the cucumber sandwiches.  
  
And the two bottles of wine.  
  
But besides _that_ , it’s mostly Crowley’s picnic.  
  
“Angel…”  
  
“Now we can have both,” he says. What he doesn’t say is “we never have to choose a side again, never _will_ choose a side again because there’s only our side. Our side with too much wine and raspberry bars and tartan and bebop and good Heavens, I love you.”  
  
Maybe he does say the “I love you” out loud though because Crowley is suddenly shoving his hands in his pockets as deep as they’ll go (to about the second knuckle) and flushed red and shrinking into himself. It makes Aziraphale want to pull him close, kiss his temples, brush back his hair, and tell him over and over how much he loves him, how much he adores him, how terribly excited he is to continue living and learning and loving all that Earth has to offer only _together_ this time.  
  
He doesn’t though. He knows Crowley well enough to know that’s too much, too...well...fast for him. Apparently all the demon ever really wanted was the assurance that Aziraphale felt the same way because actually showing that love with words and actions and anything more than what could fall under the umbrella of plausible deniability makes Crowley turn into a mess of mumbles and hiding and flushed skin to match his hair. He knows Crowley is happy, if not still grappling with the idea, that Aziraphale loves him and wants him. And that is enough. Everything else will come with time.  
  
“Shall we?” Aziraphale says.  
  
And Crowley nods and keeps nodding as he starts down the hill, Aziraphale right beside him.  
  
About halfway there Crowley reaches out and takes Aziraphale’s hand, folding their fingers together.


End file.
